Songs and Shadows
by Poetry Emotion
Summary: The year is 1924. In the boardwalk art gallery stands an local artist's rendering of a man whose broken face and gentle spirit would seize Cecilia Dawes by the heart. Herself no stranger to being an outcast, she is bent on finding her way into his world.
1. Chapter 1

Eddie Kessler gave Richard a nod of acknowledgement; Richard nodded back then quickly looked away. If Nucky wanted to speak to Jimmy privately, it would be some time that Richard would be standing in that hallway, and there was not much to do except wait. And with waiting came the risk that his mind would begin churning – towards, the past, towards dreams of the future, towards the fantasy life that he kept alive.

It had been some time – nearly a year – since his release from the hospital in Chicago. There, too, he waited, his only escape within his own head. He'd heard the term "polite society," but knew from experience they were anything but. Even the nurses didn't pretend to hide their horror at his appearance; the doctors who curtly told him there was nothing they could do. Talking, eating, swallowing, even breathing – all were impaired, but even in the hospital, they seemed more concerned with his effect on polite society. _Just wear the mask_, they advised. The plaster that nearly suffocated him when they took a cast of his face. The delicate details, from the painted wisps of facial hair to the frozen smile. The wire of its fastening spectacles that dug fiercely the side of his head when he slept, yet during his time as Margaret's bodyguard, Nucky insisted he keep it on at all times.

There was a faint sound coming from the next room. At first he thought it was the phonograph in Nucky's office, but realized it was too nuanced, too real. Someone was singing – a woman's voice.

_"__Oh, kindly tell my daddy __  
><em>_That he must take care __  
><em>_That's a baby's prayer at twilight __  
><em>_For her daddy over there…"_

He listened intently, but it had stopped. He winced to think of the children whose fathers perished in the trench – how many died not of enemy fire, but fever, perhaps even madness or melancholy. His thoughts so enveloped him that he barely noticed the woman only a few feet away. "Sir?"

Startled, he forgot to turn the intact side of his face toward her, as he was accustomed to doing. He was surprised that, as he faced her full-on, she barely blinked. She had dark eyes – kind, like Odette's. And a gentle smile. Her figure was thick, with a large bosom. Her chestnut hair looked soft.

"Can I get you something?"

Richard paused. "Mmmm. Bourbon, please."

The woman's smile widened. "Right away, sir."

As she turned, Richard spoke again. "Mmm. Pardon me. You sing?"

She faced him again, her eyes downcast. "Oh. Yes. Sometimes without realizing." She laughed a bit. "My apologies for disturbing you."

"Not. Necessary. You have. A lovely voice."

"Thank you, sir. I'll fetch your drink." She hurried away. Richard felt compelled to follow her, but didn't. He leaned against the wall. Eddie Kessler, who was just coming from Nucky's office, approached him.

"Mr. Harrow, may I get you anything?"

"No. Thank you. The woman. With the dark hair –"

"Ah, Cecelia. The new girl. She has a lovely singing voice. She sings 'Second Hand Rose' better than Fanny Brice. Lovely girl."

Richard broke in. "Yes." He watched the doorway, listened for her song, heard nothing.

"Very well, then." Kessler gave a nod and retreated to Nucky's office once again, leaving Richard to worry whether he'd be able to address her, speak her name without tripping on the syllables.

She returned with her tray, upon which was perched a glass of bourbon. With a straw.

"Your drink, sir."

"Thank you." He managed a smile. "Richard Harrow. Madam. Pleased to make. Your acquaintance."

Cecelia set down the tray, her face alight. "Cecelia Dawes." She extended her hand, and as Richard's own unsteady hand reached back, her dark eyes all but disappeared into her smile. They grew soft again, inquisitive, as she felt him tremble. "Will there be anything else, Mr. Harrow?"

Silence. Her heart stirred, as she realized he was still grasping her hand.


	2. Chapter 2

She never said so, for fear of reprisal, but Cecilia thought of Angela Darmody as a little more than a namby-pamby she-troll. Beneath his rough demeanor, her husband Mr. Darmody was intelligent, even kind. She'd seen him with little Tommy and knew he was a good father. He walked with a slight limp from injuries he sustained in battle. Angela seemed so one-dimensional she may as well have been hollow.

And then came the painting, which haunted her. She could see it – one half untouched of the man's face strikingly handsome and untouched, the other half an obliterated shell – whenever she closed her eyes. Angela had talent, for certain, and Cecilia respected talent. How Angela convinced him to remove the mask, let alone sit for hours on end without it and scrutinized for the sake of art, was beyond her imagination. But upon meeting the painting's subject, Cecilia was decidedly more impressed with the details of his mask than with the painting itself. Its near-perfect symmetry to the intact half of his face…now _that_ was talent, and of a most saintly nature. An artist that did not just look upon and reproduce the horrors of war, but applied their skill to remedy them.

Daniel had written her just before he succumbed to his wounds, stating that the horrors he saw in the hospital rivaled those he saw on the battlefield. In the trenches, death was the last bastion of mercy. There, he watched men die – some expediently, some so grievously tortured they prayed for death. Death was not unwelcome, but expected, and even hallowed, for those who died in battle died with honor. But the wounded left him wondering what God would allow these men to live. Some were wholly incapacitated, reduced to an infantile state. Some were limbless, unable to walk or eat or relieve themselves. But what horrified him most of all was the barrage of shattered, disfigured faces. In the letter to his wife, he proclaimed not only his revulsion, but profound pity that they'd "lost their very identity and all that makes them human in the eyes of others." Cecilia responded "however tragic we perceive their affliction, one carries their personhood not in visage, nor occupation, nor surname, but within the soul." He passed away before her letter was mailed.

And such was her sentiment when she saw the painting. Even through a mere representation, Cecilia marveled at how the man with half a face had a remarkably intact soul. And now, he also had a name.

She was startled by Mr. Darmody's voice and ducked out of sight. Richard Harrow, his shotgun in tow, was not far behind. From where she sat, he still looked like a proud soldier, but in the shadows of the early morning, when only the masked side of his face was visible, he seemed mechanical, like a menacing wind-up toy. She knew who these men were and what they did, but to Cecilia, they were, for all intents and purposes, soldiers. She felt the laws of a nation who sent heroic young men to certain death did not deserve to be obeyed.

She'd been watching for days, perhaps weeks, and she was finally beginning to feel bolder. But at the thought of actually pursuing him, let alone approaching him, her heart pounded as though trying to run for dear life. She reached for her hip-flask and damned her hesitation. She couldn't hide in the shadows forever.

"Cecilia?"

Eddie Kessler's voice jolted her awake, and she determined that her pre-dawn excursions to the beach were taking their toll. She had nodded off at the desk again.

"Yes, Eddie. I'm so sorry."

"Please fetch some refreshments for Mr. Darmody and Mr. Harrow."

_He's here._ Cecilia almost knocked over the chair as she jumped to her feet. "Right away."

"You mustn't sleep on the job. I do not wish to see Mr. Thompson displeased with you."

"Thank you, Eddie," Cecilia retorted. She all but ran toward the hutch, splashing bourbon onto the tray as she poured. She hastily mopped it up with her apron while the other fumbled for Mr. Harrow's straw.

"Good day, gentlemen," she chirped, carrying her tray.

Mr. Darmody's eyes studied her. "You remembered the straw."

"I did, sir." She beamed. He smiled back, but she hadn't noticed. Her eyes were fixed on Richard. She barely heard his voice over her own heartbeat.

"Miss Dawes."

"Mr. Harrow. Oh, and it's 'Mrs.'"

"Hmm. I didn't know. You were married."

"Widowed, sir. My husband perished in the Marne."

"I'm sorry." He turned the mask towards her, hoping she wouldn't notice his barely-contained smile.

"Thank you." Cecilia's voice trailed off as Eddie led Mr. Darmody into Nucky's office. "Mr. Harrow…if I may…"

"Yes…"

"You were the subject of Mrs. Darmody's painting."

"I am."

She took a deep breath "I found it quite lovely."

"She is. A gifted painter."

"And you are a remarkable subject."

Richard froze, speechless. "Hmmm." was all he could manage. Cecilia hurried back to the kitchen, she felt his eye on her.

"Mrs. Dawes? Do you. Have a moment."

Eddie, who was watching from the hallway, exclaimed, "Her duties can wait. She would be happy to take your company."

"Thank you, Eddie," Cecilia called back, feeling both annoyed and triumphant.

"If you would. Please sit a moment," said Richard softly. She did. "Your husband."

"Yes, sir. He was wounded in the trenches and taken to the hospital. Infection set in, and he died of his wounds."

"Hmm. And yet. You sing."

"Sir, I sing to fill the silence. I refuse to think with self-pity about how we were to start a family, build a home, and the war robbed me of this. When the beauty of song fills the shadows, my mind is distracted from the past."

Richard's shoulders tensed. "That is. Admirable."

"Thank you."

"Hmm." For the first time, Cecilia saw him smile – a gentle, beautiful, if not slightly broken smile.

"What songs. Do you know."

Cecilia's eyes widened a bit, and she could barely disguise the joy in her voice. "Oh, many. A great many. Would you like to hear one?"

"I would."

He gazed intently at her face; she looked away and began, her eyes closed. The melody was familiar, and recalling the first time he heard her sing, he was entranced yet again.

_I've heard the prayers of mothers,  
>Some of them old and gray<br>I've heard the prayers of others  
>For those who went away<em>

_Oft times a prayer will teach one  
>The meaning of good bye<br>I felt the pain of each one,  
>But this one made me cry<em>

_Just a baby's prayer at twilight  
>When lights are low<br>Poor baby's years  
>are filled with tears<em>

Emboldened, Richard stood, walked to where Cecilia was seated, knelt down, and grasped her hand, as he did when they first met. Cecilia stopped, as if he'd stolen the song from her heart.

"It does. Fill the shadows."


	3. Chapter 3

Jimmy Darmody wasn't accustomed to seeing his friend and associate so distracted. But he was cautiously optimistic, as he knew the reason.

"Richard."

Richard Harrow looked up, as though startled. "Hmm." Jimmy smiled knowingly. The two men were silent for a moment, and then Richard spoke.

"I'm wondering. If I can ask a favor."

Jimmy leaned back, smiling. "Anything."

"For advice. Guidance. On matters of –"

"Cecilia Dawes."

"Yes. I've grown. Quite fond of her."

"You know what? If it's all right with you, I can invite her to our place."

"Not. For a meal."

Jimmy sighed at the thought of his friend's discomfort, how Richard would not even take food in his or Angela's company. The mere thought of doing so in front of a woman must have been torturous. "No. Maybe some coffee, or drinks. We'll listen to music, get her to sing. You can take her out for a walk on the boardwalk. Or the beach. That's kind of romantic."

Richard nodded. Jimmy continued. "She's probably going to be just as nervous as you."

"I hardly think so."

"It's natural. Don't worry." There was another long pause, then Jimmy laughed a little. "You know, if this goes somewhere, you'll have to eat in front of her sooner or later. Otherwise she might think you don't like her cooking or something."

Richard half-smiled. "True."

On Saturday evening, Angela answered the door. Cecila's cheeks were flushed before she even touched the wine.

"Mrs. Darmody." Cecilia extended her hand. "Cecilia Dawes."

"It's so nice to finally meet you."

_Finally?_ No matter. She seemed sincere enough. In Cecilia's other hand was a bottle. "Some homemade wine for my gracious host and hostess."

"Thank you. Please, come inside."

Richard sat in the parlor by the window; hearing the women's voices, turned the good side of his face towards the center of the room. Cecilia's face instantly burst into a smile. "Hello, Mr. Harrow."

Cecilia heard a door close softly, and Jimmy emerged. "Hello." He gave a nod to Richard, who rose from his chair to greet their beaming guest. She could hardly breathe. Richard wasn't saying a word, just studying her.

"May I. Take your coat." He stepped behind her. She smelled like lavender.

"Thank you, Mr. Harrow."

"Please. Richard."

Cecilia looked at the floor, then gazed at his face, not sure whether she saw a smile. "All right. Thank you, Richard."

"Hmm." He hurried from the room.

Jimmy took note of the wine bottle. "Why don't we open this up?" Angela headed for the kitchen; Jimmy followed. "I may have moved the glasses. I'll go check."

At that moment, Richard returned. He froze when he reached the doorway. "Please. Won't you sit down."

Cecilia walked to the chair opposite his. "Only if you'll do the same." He obliged.

"Jimmy. Mr. Darmody. Was hoping. You might sing tonight."

"That depends on how strong the wine is." Cecilia sighed and laughed at once. "I'm not accustomed to having an audience."

"But you sang. For me. At Mr. Thompson's office."

"A captive audience of one. Well, besides Eddie Kessler, but that's only because we work in the same office. He couldn't exactly avoid it."

As if on cue, Angela returned with a tray of wine glasses. She and Jimmy sat together on the sofa. Cecilia picked up two – one with a straw – and reclaimed her place near the window. The straw teetered on the edge of the glass as she handed it to Richard.

"Mrs. Dawes," Jimmy began, raising his glass, "my wife and I, and Mr. Harrow, thank you for coming tonight. I have a matter I'd like to discuss with you."

Noticing that both she and Richard looked equally perplexed, he continued. "As it turns out, our neighbor is looking for a governess. She's seeking someone who has a love of music as well as a fondness for children. Would this interest you?"

Cecilia sipped her wine. "It certainly would. I do adore children." She glanced at Richard. Now, his smile was entirely visible.

"The Darmodys. Have a son."

"Yes," replied Angela. "Tommy."

"I would have liked to have a family myself," Cecilia continued, "but sadly, my husband passed away."

"I'm very sorry." Jimmy reclined in his chair. "If I may inquire, how did he die?"

"He served in the war. Succumbed to sickness. I would assume from conditions in the trenches."

Jimmy nodded. "I'm a veteran myself. Richard is as well, as I'm sure you're aware." He took a drag of his cigarette.

"Yes, sir." Cecilia took a long sip of her wine, drew a deep breath, and blurted out, "Daniel, my husband, served in the ninety-second infantry division."

Jimmy winced. "Excuse me?"

Cecilia's voice rose slightly. "Ninety-second infantry."

"I'm sorry, Mrs. Dawes, but with all due respect, I think you're—"

"I'm not mistaken, sir. And I'm not ashamed either. I was, in fact, married to a colored man."

The room fell completely quiet, save for the muffled ocean, Richard's tic and, Cecilia assumed, her pounding heart. Angela sat up in her chair, nothing short of fascinated. Jimmy was dumbstruck.

"I didn't mean to shock you, sir. But to be frank, I'm used to such a reaction. The stares, the disapproving whispers. My own family ostracized me." She turned toward Richard. "People can be unabashedly cruel, I'm afraid." Her eyes grew stormy for a moment.

Jimmy cleared his throat. "I see." He waited for a response from Richard, but saw only his shoulders rise and fall, his breath quickening. "Mrs. Dawes, rest assured, you are among friends here."

"Thank you, sir."

"If you. Would excuse me." Richard rose from his seat. "I think. I'll take some air." Cecilia's throat tightened as he faced her. He didn't seem upset in the least. So, she wondered, why is he leaving?

"Mrs. Dawes. If you would. Please join me." He looked at Jimmy for approval.

Cecilia nearly jumped to her feet. "Oh. Oh, yes, I'd like that."

Jimmy sighed deeply, grinning like a child. "Enjoy your walk."

Richard nodded, then fetched the coats. He returned, opened the door and motioned to Cecilia. He could see her shoulders tremble as her arms reached into each sleeve. She was transfixed, at once hopeful and terrified.

In the darkness, the ocean reached across the shoreline, as if playfully trying to tag her feet, like a mischievous cat. Cecilia was in better spirits now, as Richard walked beside her. He was reminded for a moment of his dream about Odette, and how he was awakened by the horrified screams of Margaret's young daughter. He stopped in his tracks for a few seconds.

"Richard? Is something the matter?"

"No."

She felt herself strangely emboldened. She removed her coat and placed it on the sand. Richard hesitated, then sat to the left of her. She gazed at the ocean, while he watched her face, her hand as it brushed the chestnut-colored tresses from her cheek. The wind was relentless, though, so she tried to tuck it under her hat, still to no avail.

"I'm sorry. No one. heard you sing."

Cecilia could not suppress her laughter. "Oh, but I did. I sang like a little canary. My big secret." She noticed how the muted light made Richard's face appear whole. "Do you ever remove your mask, Richard?"

"When I sleep."

"The Darmody's home is lovely. So close to the beach. The rhythm of the ocean – it's like a lullaby itself. I imagine one would sleep quite well there."

"Indeed."

She glanced toward the house, but saw only shadows flash against the glass. She leaned in and whispered, "I wonder if they're watching us?"

"Hmm. And what. Would they hope to see."

Cecilia shrugged. "I'm sure I don't know—" The words barely escaped her lips when she felt the warmth of a hand over her own. She marveled as Richard edged closer. His fingers intertwined with hers.

"So. You may have an audience. After all."

It was the first time Cecilia Dawes – or any of them – had ever seen Richard Harrow laugh. Or as close as he would ever come. No matter. It was enough to overwhelm Cecilia's sense of decorum, reason, and everything that went along with it. She lay back in the sand, the force of her laughter and the grip of her hand pulling Richard down with her. With her free hand, she reached across his chest, and laid it directly over his heart. It was, in rapid succession, beating in cadence with the waves, a song all their own. He stroked her hair, closed his eye, and counted the stars.


	4. Chapter 4

All Cecilia knew was that it was barely past dawn when she felt someone gently shaking her. Had she not almost rolled face-first into the sand, she'd have likely forgotten where she was.

"Are you awake?" It was Angela. "Jimmy and Richard had some business to attend to. I thought I should look for you."

Cecilia sat up slowly, picking up her coat, and shook off the sand, muttering, "Damn" under her breath. The wind was strong, and Angela averted her eyes as the sand whipped past her. When Cecilia finally gathered her composure, she locked eyes with Angela, and stammered, "Thank you. You're not sleeping yourself?"

"No." She motioned toward the house. "Would you like some coffee?"

Cecilia still wasn't sure what to make of Angela. She seemed lonely. A bit sad. And after being left by herself on the beach, Cecilia wasn't keen on facing the day alone. Flooded by his presence, then so abruptly thwarted by his absence, she feared this would be a silence she couldn't fill with song.

"You're very kind. I'd love some."

The women started back towards the boardwalk, exchanging few words. Cecilia relished how the memory of the previous evening washed over her, a warm, electric rush. Her unruly curls were a nuisance in the sea-charged wind. She was dismayed that one of the heart-shaped hairpins had been lost in the sand while she was sleeping.

"Did they tell you where they were going?"

Angela shook her head. "Jimmy came down to the beach to fetch Richard before sunrise."

"I'll be damned." Cecilia immediately looked sheepish. "Excuse me."

"I don't offend easily," Angela laughed, setting the coffee pot on the stove. Its aroma quickly filled the house, and suddenly Cecilia felt a peculiar emptiness. Even the clicking sound the clock made reminded her of him. If only she'd stayed awake…would he have said something more? Would he have told her where he was going, or where he hoped to go?

Angela joined her at the table. "Cecilia, may I speak plainly?"

Cecilia stared into Angela's face, searching for some semblance of hope, encouragement. There was none. Reluctantly, she managed, "You may."

"It's really hard to imagine what they went through. In the war, the things they saw. But when they do come home, it's like being with a stranger. And I don't know which is worse – when he wakes up screaming in the middle of the night, or the days when there's only silence."

Cecilia nodded. "Daniel wrote letters. He always worried that he would distress me. But I didn't mind. To me, they were just stories." She looked back up at Angela. "I can only imagine the things Jimmy's told you."

"No. Actually, I think Richard's confided in me more than Jimmy has."

Cecilia winced, glad that Angela's back was turned as she poured the coffee. Difficult to disguise, however, was the tension in her voice. "Is that so?" She shifted in her chair, fidgeted with her hair, and a few grains of sand fell and scattered onto the table. Angela took the seat beside her.

"I know this much. What he's seen has disconnected him, in a sense, from his own heart. Or that's what he believes."

To Cecilia, it was starting to sound like she was being assigned to a dangerous mission, and she bristled up at the thought. She was, admittedly, jealous that Angela had gained such insight, while she wasn't even able to stay awake long enough to touch the surface. But she'd have preferred to endure countless nights as Angela described, rather than bear the brevity of the dreaded telegram. She thought often of the people who prepared those things, how to them she was one of the countless, faceless scores of mothers, wives, sisters… She pondered Angela, gingerly waking her on the beach, but whose own sleep was likely shattered by Jimmy's nightmares. Indeed, a burden to bear.

Angela continued. "But…the way he was pacing before you arrived. The way he gazes at you. When Jimmy was leaving this morning, I asked what became of you both. He said, 'Damned if he wouldn't have just sat there watching her sleep if I let him. I'd be out of business.'"

Cecilia was too taken aback to laugh, and so she said nothing, just closed her eyes for a long moment, trying to picture his face with her mind's eye, trying to imagine him beside her again. Her chest tightened, as it seemed her heart was near bursting. It was a nearly unbearable pain, one she both welcomed and resisted. She rested her chin in her hand.

"Have you ever heard him laugh?"

This time, Angela all but squealed like a schoolgirl. "Tell me you have?"

"Last night. It could have been at me. I didn't care. It was the most beautiful thing in the world." Cecilia sighed. "Oh, listen to me prattle on. I sound so foolish."

Angela touched Cecilia's shoulder reassuringly, but Cecilia's smile had already faded. "So perhaps you can tell me, Mrs. Darmody. What's a fool to do?"

Angela was unable to find any words at all, let alone an answer. Just as reluctant to part ways and face the silence alone, Cecilia drank her coffee as slowly as she could. Angela was quick on her feet, quicker still to pour another cup, even before Cecilia had the chance to ask.

The metal edges were slightly discolored, but when the tiny crystals caught the muted light, it reminded him of the stars. He sat quietly, surreptitiously traced the outline of the heart with his index finger. It would be fitting to adorn the pages of "Home." It would be safe there, nestled amid the images he'd pasted, if not a bit out-of-place against a one-dimensional backdrop. Or, he could keep it in his pocket – but with his coat still reeking of gunpowder, that too was unseemly. It was starting to rain. The prongs dug a little into the palm of his hand, but he held fast, so not to drop it as he ran.

He tried to be as careful as he could, removing the pin from her hair, but he still managed to catch a strand or two, and she remained sleeping. Conversely, he fought against it with every cell in his body, as if by sheer will he could bid the night to never end. But end it did, the moment Jimmy beckoned him.

Richard made his way up the stairs. The rain was merciless. He stuck the hairpin into the keyhole, but stumbled against the railing, inadvertently agitating some poor creature, whose shrieks likely startled the whole of Atlantic County. Lights flickered on, one after another. He saw a shadow dart across the window, and he froze. And onto the porch staggered a very sleepy, very perplexed Cecilia.

She wasn't entirely certain whether this was a dream, but without a word, she hustled him inside and closed the door behind him. "Richard? What's wrong?"

He didn't answer. He just stared, his trembling hand still clenched around the hairpin. "Poor dear, you're drenched." She took his hat, slid the coat from his shoulders, and dropped both on the floor when he suddenly reached out and embraced her with such force she nearly lost her balance. She steadied herself, pressed her head to his chest, and held him close. His voice was barely audible over the storm; if in fact they were words at all, she wasn't certain.

"I'm sorry. I had to leave. This morning."

"I know, Richard, it's all right."

"Hmm."

Without much thought, Cecilia reached up to touch the side of his face, and in doing so nearly dislodged the wire spectacles that held his mask in place. He moved to stop her, and as he did she felt something sharp in his hand. In the dim light, she didn't recognize it as her missing hairpin; all she could see was the glistening heart.

"I should. Give this back—"

Realizing what it was, Cecilia shook her head, her lips parted in what looked like a smile. She placed it in his breast pocket. Then, his arms still around her, his heart racing, he closed his eye and let her remove the mask. She set it down on the mantle, and he had barely a second to ponder how her lips felt on the left side of his face before he found himself kissing her back.


	5. Chapter 5

With Richard's arms still clasped around her waist, Cecilia was too overwhelmed to blink, let alone move. He was looking down, away from her face. The thunder roared and shook the wooden frame.

"Hmm. You deserve. More than someone. Hmm. Without a heart."

Cecilia stepped back, breaking from his grip. His lips were quivering slightly. She touched his arm and tried her best to smile through her welling tears. She was almost too choked up to sing, but if there was a chance her song that could shine a light on his heart, she'd sing every waking moment.

_"He'll look at me and smile  
>I'll understand<br>And in a little while  
>He'll take my hand<br>And though it seems absurd  
>I know we both won't say a word..."<em>

But her heart rose up to her throat, to the point that her voice was barely a whisper. She touched his shirt pocket, tracing its shape through the fabric.

"Silly thing. You have mine."

She reached her hand toward his broken face. The scarred skin was not as rough as it appeared - taut and thick, but not off-putting. She kissed him on the forehead, just above his vacant eye socket. His entire body shook as he broke into voiceless, choking sobs. Cecilia drew her lips close to his ear, her heart pounding. He was trembling so hard he no longer stand, and he gripped her so tightly that Cecilia was forced down to the floor, where she cradled him in her arms like a child, his head against her bosom. She couldn't make a sound, just stroked his hair, her tears cruelly mimicking the rain on the window.

Angela's words echoed in her ears. She knew what she was facing, but never expected the way his pain tore through her being, threatened to swallow her whole. It was maddening to her that she couldn't take it away. She tried to imagine all the things Daniel had written about. She turned the thunder into the rattle of gunfire, and she tried to summon the fear, the overwhelming stench. Darkness. Death filling every moment. Richard's heart was mired in it, and although Cecilia was not a frail woman, even with all her strength, she found pulling him ashore a formidable task. Praying through her own tears for dry land, and it felt like weeks until the storm subsided.

The floorboards were leaving their reddening, icy impression on the back of her legs. She started to sit up, gently nudged him forward, toward the easy chair by the fireplace. Still unsteady, he sunk into it, Cecilia kneeling beside him. She was positioned so that her head rested on his thigh, and he buried his face in her hair, breathing deeply, beginning to calm.

"Richard, you should stay here tonight."

"Hmm." Then, nothing.

"Can I get you anything?"

"No. Thank you." Richard thought for a moment. "Not to trouble you. Perhaps. A blanket."

Cecilia sat up. "Whatever for?"

"The room. Is a bit cold."

_Oh God,_ thought Cecilia, biting her lip. _He's trying to be a gentleman._ "No, it's no trouble. But," she whispered, "I did have other accomodations in mind."

She jumped to her feet. He rose behind her, tentatively following her into a bedroom. Cecilia wondered if the sound of the blood pulsating in her ears was audible over the rain. Richard looked briefly around the room, then he sat down on the bed. She closed the door and sat beside him, reaching for his hand, drawing it up to her lips. Emboldened, Richard leaned forward and kissed her, almost ferociously. Cecilia gasped as his lips brushed her neck. then close to her ear. Again, her lips met his, eagerly. He took her by both shoulders, stroked her arms, gazed into her eyes. How she loved that smile, that beautiful broken smile. She could have wept, but as her physical passion mounted, her chafed emotions seemed reduced to merely observing. Waiting in the shadows. She stood and pulled back the covers on her bed.

"You said you were cold." With little hesitation, he removed his shoes and joined her under the blanket. She moved in close, savoring the warmth of his body pressed against hers, his fluttering breath on her cheek. He had a slight build - she could actually feel the outline of his ribcage - but broad shoulders, muscular arms. There was a scar she hadn't noticed before, across his throat. "Cecilia -"

It was the first time she clearly remembered him speaking her name. She shivered, though every nerve in her body was aflame. There was something about his voice in that moment, something she couldn't quite place.

"Cecilia..."

She was entranced. Even with the oddly mechanical-sounding rasp in his voice, it sounded vaguely like a song. She pushed herself back up to meet his eye. It was almost morning, so its pale brown color seemed much more vivid as it caught the light. Her fingertips circled the dark, still-damp tresses that fell across his scars.

Then came the loud, persistent rapping, jolting both of them. Richard sat upright, looking startled.

"What the _hell_?" Cecilia exclaimed, nearly falling out of the bed. She gathered her dressing gown around her shoulders and ran to the door. Richard located the Colt in the pocket of his still-wet coat in the parlor, and pushed past her, throwing the door wide open.

"Hey, Richard, relax. It's just me." He gave a nod to Cecilia, who was clutching her chest.

"Mr. Darmody. You startled us."

Jimmy could barely contain himself. "Am I interrupting something?

"No," Richard and Cecilia answered at the exact same moment. Richard glanced at Cecilia, then hurried toward the bedroom. Cecilia averted her eyes.

Jimmy stepped inside, closing the door behind him. "I'm sorry."

"I understand," she said, although she briefly considered telling him to go to hell.

There was a long pause. "You know something...I think I can handle it."

Richard emerged a moment later, bending down to retrieve his coat from the floor. He tucked the Colt back in his pocket. Jimmy called him over and whispered something in his ear.

"Cecilia, I'm so sorry to have troubled you. I told Richard I'll come by later. I apologize for the disturbance."

Before she could answer, Richard said, "Thank you." And to Cecilia's bewilderment, he re-entered the house.

"Tonight, then."

"Yes."

As Jimmy turned to leave, just barely supressing a laugh as he did so, Richard watched Cecilia's face as she sighed deeply. "That was very kind of him."

"He is."

"I'm certainly glad you didn't shoot him."

"Hmm. I thought he. Might be an intruder."

Cecilia cocked her head. "And you'd come to my rescue?" she asked, dryly.

"You sound. Surprised."

"No. It's not that. I know you would. And I don't mean to offend." She scurried to the hutch and returned holding something wrapped neatly in hand towel. She handed it to Richard. He carefully unfolded it to find a handgun, remarkably similar to his.

"It's a Smith and Wesson. My brother, Adrian, gave it to me after Daniel died. He didn't especially like the idea of me living alone."

"You can. Operate this."

Cecilia lowered her eyes as she spoke. "I grew up with six boys. When they'd go out hunting, I'd tell my mother I was concerned for their safety, and I'd just follow them into the woods. They knew how stubborn I was, so they figured they might as well teach me how to shoot."

"Hmmm. A large family."

"We've been out of contact since Daniel and I married. Well, except for Adrian. He's different from the rest of them." Her tone was curt and icy. She took a deep breath and smoothed her hair. "So, Richard, how about you? Your family?"

"I have a twin sister. Emma. She lives in Wisconsin. Hmmm."

Cecilia nodded as Richard handed the weapon back to her. He watched as she tucked it back into a drawer. "A twin. Thought for certain you were one of a kind." She reached up and touched his cheek affectionately. She debated telling him that she was teaching Margaret, Nucky's paramour, how to properly handle and fire a gun, and how she had difficulty loading the clips. Richard, having been a marksman, would likely have had some advice. But now that daylight filled the room, he noticed the piano.

"Do you play."

"Yes."

"I'd like to hear."

"Okay." Cecilia sat down on the bench and tentatively began a Rachmaninov piece. Richard took his place on the easy chair. He was entranced. But after a moment or two, he determined it wasn't all that gratifying just to watch.

He stepped behind her, watching her fingers dance across the keys, her eyes closed, as if she was lost in a dream. In a fell swoop, he gathered her hair and planted a passionate kiss on her neck. She was startled at first, but then turned to meet his lips. The room fell quiet again so all she could hear was his breathing. The sweetest song in the world.

* * *

><p><em>Open your eye, my darling, <em>she wanted to whisper as Richard slept peacefully on the pillow next to her. She was fixated on figuring out its actual color. In the sunlight it looked lighter than the painted eye on his mask, as if it had been chiseled from topaz. Ah well, he's not waking up anytime soon. It'll have to wait. She dressed herself, then set about making some biscuits.

It was the clatter of pans along with the aroma that actually woke him up. He rose from the bed, rummaged through the blankets to find his clothes, and in his haste accidentally knocked something off the side table. He picked it up and realized it was a photograph of a much younger Cecilia and her family. He took a closer look, examining it for any obvious damage, but fortunately there was none. He smiled at the sight of her plump face, how uncomfortable she looked in the pale lace frock, ribbons adorning her unruly curls. She was surrounded by mostly boys; there was one other girl, and a mother, holding a baby. He squinted to see the faces of her brothers, and realized one of them looked familiar. Too familiar.

Yes, he'd definitely seen that face before. She did say she was from Philadelphia. Perhaps someone he'd run into at Manny Horwitz's place? Or someone who frequented the boardwalk -

_Oh, no._ Richard thought, his mind beginning to race._ Shit. It can't be._

He could put it back, pretending he never saw a thing. He held onto the vague hope that if he could pretend, that would make it less real. But instead, gripped by curiosity, he opened up the frame and removed the photograph, and turned it over. On the back, in a woman's perfect script, it read:

_La famiglia d'Alessio, agosto 1910_


	6. Chapter 6

Before Eddie opened the door to Nucky Thompson's office, he stopped Cecilia in her tracks.

"I just want to say, I am very sorry to see you go. I will miss our duets and our conversations. It has been a pleasure working with you, Cecilia."

_What a dear, dear man._ She extended her hand, which Eddie took and robustly kissed. But seeing that she was no longer employed by Mr. Thompson, she eschewed formality and reached to embrace him. "The pleasure was all mine. I hope we'll stay in touch."

Eddie returned her embrace, then abruptly pulled away, nodded, and stepped into Nucky's office announce her. Cecilia followed. The room smelled strongly of whiskey and tobacco.

"Hello, Cecilia. Please, sit down. Can I get you anything?"

"No, sir, thank you."

"I received your resignation. I understand you've been offered another position."

"Yes. I'll be caring for children. Teaching them music."

Nucky took a drag of his cigarette. "I've been told you have a suitor as well?" She said nothing, just gazed at some cigarette ashes embedded in the rug. Nucky could tell by her face that something was amiss. "Mr. Harrow. A fine man. A hero."

"He is, sir."

Nucky opened the drawer of his desk and took out an envelope. "Your salary. And reference letter for your new employer. Plus a little something extra, which I'm assuming you'll need for the upcoming nuptials."

Cecilia almost choked on her words. But as she did not want to insult him, she near-whispered, "You are too kind."

He reached across the desk, placed the envelope in her hand, and lay his other hand over hers. She studied his stigmata-like scar for a moment. "I'm sorry to see you go, Cecilia. It really has been wonderful."

"Thank you, Mr. Thompson."

He nodded, but there was concern on his face. "What's troubling you?"

"Sir," she began, her voice trembling. "may I speak freely?"

"Of course."

"Regarding my brothers."

"Yes. A tragedy. But as they say, live by the sword -"

"I agree. But there's something I need to know." She summoned whatever strength she had. "Was James Darmody involved in their execution?"

Nucky folded his arms. "I really can't say-"

Cecilia cut him off. "If there's something you know, sir, it would mean a great deal to me."

He sighed deeply. "You asked to speak plainly, and I believe what you're really asking is whether Mr. Harrow was involved."

"I am."

Nucky stepped around the desk and stood close to her. "That is something you'll have to ask Mr. Darmody."

"And I plan to do so."

"You have a heart of pure gold, my dear, and a voice to match. I hope Mr. Harrow realizes what a lucky man he is. I wish you well."

Lucky, indeed. To be incidentally courting the sister of the men he fucking executed. All she managed was a quiet "thank you" before she left.

Angela was glad to see Cecilia in better spirits, and she was pleased that Louise and Cecilia were getting along famously. There'd been no mention of Richard. Tonight, her friend was giddy with wine, song, and good company. Angela left the porch of the bungalow, joining the other two women as they sat by the bonfire, laughing uproariously at something. Louise smiled as her lover approached.

"Hey. Cecilia and I were just talking about the last time we were here."

Angela smiled, "Oh, no. That was embarrassing."

Cecilia leaned it and touched Angela's shoulder. "We've all had our moments, believe me."

"But it was a grand time anyway." Angela took Louise's hand, and Louise wrapped her arm around Angela. They kissed, and Cecilia looked out towards the water, remembering the last time she'd sat on the sand, and how she'd fallen asleep next to Richard. She chased the lump in her throat with a long slug of her homemade wine, then reached for the jug beside her.

"Would you care for some more, ladies?"

Both nodded emphatically, and Cecilia poured. She heard the strains of a piano.

"Oh, my. They're playing George Gershwin. I adore this song."

"Sing it," urged Angela.

"Yes, please do!" echoed Louise.

Cecilia smiled shyly.

_"...I know I could always be good  
>To one who'll watch over me<br>Although he may not be the man some girls think of as handsome  
>To my heart, he carries the key..."<em>

Cecilia's eyes were closed as she sang, so she didn't notice the way Angela marveled not only at the passion in her voice, but the entranced faces of crowd that was growing around them. But as Angela scanned the crowd, she was jolted when she saw a familiar - and wholly unexpected - face. Her eyes widened, he lips parted, but just before she could speak his name, he motioned for her to be quiet.

_"Won't you tell him please to put on some speed  
>Follow my lead, oh how I need,<br>Someone to watch over me..."_

The small crowd applauded, and unaware of their presence, Cecilia seemed startled. But she gathered her senses as best she could, and stood up and curtsied. They could not have known this was not one of those songs that delivered her from the shadows. It had, in fact, cast shadows anew on her aching heart.

And then, she saw the man scurrying away from her little audience. The broad shoulders, the tall, slender build, the soldier's gait. Maybe it was the wine, or the tears clouding her eyes.

She quickly turned toward Angela, just in time to see her break from Louise's embrace to follow the man, and she knew.

"Damn. They're probably going to her place. We need to get there first."

Louise shrugged and helped herself to the near-empty jug, finished the remainder of the wine, and watched a distraught Cecilia stumble through the sand.

At the Darmody's table, as Angela and Louise looked on, all that could be heard was the clock, the ocean, and occasionally Richard's labored swallowing.

_Their fucking sister._

Cecilia broke the silence. "That _was_ my family."

She held Richard's gaze intently, her face oddly unmoving, as though she herself wore a mask. "That is, sadly, the price of the life they chose. Well, all except for Pius. I practically raised that boy myself. But they were his idols, and he was none the wiser."

Richard felt sick to his stomach. Before he met Richard's bullet, the boy had fumbled with his handgun, wept in fright, his hands shielding his face, and Richard was unmoved. His words to Eli Thompson that day at the Commodore's echoed back at him: _You would kill your own brother._ It was unthinkable to him at the time.

_I could go there. Kill the mother. The sisters. The dentist. That would make them. Stick their heads up. _It was, in retrospect, Jimmy who had spared Cecilia's by not giving Richard the order.

Cecilia slid a chair close to him and sighed deeply. "When they found out I married Daniel, they wanted nothing to do with me. Not even when I got word that Daniel had died...I tried to contact them, but they never responded. By then it hurt too much to both mourn Daniel and hold onto whatever love I had left for my brothers. I had to let it go."

"Why. Do you keep it."

"The photograph? Because the boys in the picture were my brothers. Those men who were killed were strangers to me." Cecilia bit her lip, growing increasingly anxious. "I'm not going to say they deserved it. But you did what you had to do. I don't blame you. I don't hold it against you."

She stood up and stepped toward Richard, who resembled a cornered dog. As gently as she could, she touched his arm. "And I think you need to forgive yourself."

"I can't." _For almost killing you too, with hardly a second thought or an ounce or remorse_. "I should leave."

Angela started after him. "You don't have to."

But he'd already darted from the room. Cecilia ran as fast as she could and jumped in front of the door, blocking it. Richard stopped in his tracks. "Please."

Cecilia folded her arms and leaned her full weight against the door. With her stubborn, childike stance, she reminded Richard very much of Emma in that moment. Except that there was something about Cecilia that was much more formidable, almost intimidating. He wasn't too worried, because nine brothers or not, he'd still spent months on the battlefield and could easily outmaneuver her. But her posture, and the determination on her face, told him it would not be an easy battle.

"To hell with them, and to hell with the past. So help me, Mr. Harrow, I'd rather you gun me down too than leave me again."

Louise laughed aloud, but Angela shushed her. Richard turned and glared at her.

"Listen, maybe it's not my place," Louise blurted, "but unless you're some kind of damn fool, you should marry her before she pins you to the floor."

Richard sighed. "Angela."

Angela rose from her seat.

"Tell Jimmy. Hmm. I'm through."

Cecilia's smile exploded across her face as Richard embraced her. They left together.


End file.
